A Lasting Impression

sleeper.”
    Wishing she had somewhere else to go, Claire decided to seek other lodgings first thing in the morning. “Thank you, Mr. Broderick. I’ve got everything I need.”
    Claire closed the door and laid her reticule on the dresser. She looked around for her satchel, then exhaled, gritting her teeth. She’d left it downstairs by the desk.
    After waiting for several heartbeats, she opened the bedroom door a fraction of an inch, then another, and peered down the hallway. She did not want to risk further interaction with her host.
    The hallway was empty, and she was halfway to the stairs when voices drifted toward her. She hesitated, then made a mad dash by an open doorway, praying she wouldn’t be seen.
    Feeling a little foolish that she was tiptoeing down the stairs, as though she were doing something wrong, she crossed the room and retrieved her satchel. A burnished glow from outside caught her eye, and she paused for a moment to peer out the window.
    Gas lamps lining either side of the street burned brightly, the flames flickering orange-gold within the smoky glass. So pretty against the purple dusk. It made her homesick for—
    Her hand tightened on the leather handle. Homesick for what ? A place to call home? For Maman? Always . . . For Papa, and the relationship she’d always wanted with him but had never had? Perhaps . . .
    Unwilling to give those thoughts further rein, she tiptoed back upstairs. She paused at the top of the second-floor landing, listening for any sign of her overly friendly host.
    “It just seems right to me, Samuel, that she be told about such a thing.”
    Claire grew very still.
    “She will be told, Mama. When that nice man comes back. You remember Mr. DePaul. He brought you flowers and candy. He said in his telegram that he wants to be the one to tell her. That we’re not to say anything about it. He knows best, and we need to respect his wishes.”
    Claire didn’t move for fear the creak of a floorboard would give her away. Uncle Antoine wanted to tell her something himself. But what? From inside the room, came the clink of dishes and shuffled steps. At any moment, she expected Mr. Broderick to walk into the hallway and discover her standing there. And then what would she—
    “And be nice to her, Mama. We’re supposed to keep an eye on her until he comes again. He made that clear. She’ll be helping to take care of you now. Won’t that be nice? No more of my cooking. And you’ll have another woman to talk to.”
    Claire frowned. Helping to take care of Mrs. Broderick? And cooking?
    A light sigh, then the creak of a rocker. “All right, Samuel. But I still think a daughter deserves to know her father has died.”
    Claire blinked, her world grinding to a halt. She heard the words all too clearly but had trouble making them make sense. An instinctive step backward—
    And nothing but air met the heel of her boot. She dropped the satchel and grabbed for the handrail. And missed. She slipped a step, then another, before gaining hold. The satchel slid down the stairs and landed at the bottom with a thud. Heavy footsteps sounded, and Broderick appeared at the top of the stairs.
    “Miss Laurent! Are you all right?” He reached her and practically lifted her up the stairs.
    “My father,” Claire whispered. “A daughter deserves to know her father has died.” The words kept replaying in her mind, and what little air there was seemed to evaporate.
    “Here—” His arm came tight about her waist. “Let me help you to your room.”
    Claire tried to push him away, but he was strong, and insistent.
    “I’m sorry you heard that. But . . .” He led her into the bedroom and over to the bed, where he sat beside her. “I received the telegram this morning. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.” He stroked her back, his hand caressing, moving downward.
    Claire scooted away. “Don’t!” She put up a hand. “Please, just leave me—”
    “You’re upset, as well you should be.” He moved and slid an arm around her shoulders again. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”
    Claire tried to stand, but his arm tightened around her. Only then did she realize he’d closed the door to the bedroom.
    “I want to help you, Miss Laurent.” He reached for her hand. “I believe that we’ll—”
    “Let go of me!”
    But he didn’t. And the previous warmth she’d seen in his eyes graduated to a heat. Even inexperienced as she was, Claire knew that wasn’t good.